


To Whom the Spirits Speak

by athena_crikey



Category: Hameln no Violin-hiki | Violinist of Hameln
Genre: Gen, Grief, Longing, Lute's fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: “I wish you to ask the spirits whether my son, Prince Lute, resides in their realm. Or whether he is still here, in ours.”OR: After the battle at the gates of the castle, Horn asks a favour of Raiel.
Kudos: 1





	To Whom the Spirits Speak

The light in Sforzendo is different – brighter, cleaner, purer – than ordinary light.

Objectively, Raiel thinks, it’s because here the spotless windows are filled with panes of crystal-clear glass instead of the usual thick grimy panes filled with bubbles and sediment that village glaziers provide. In this sparkling city of magic and opulence, though, it’s easy to think that it’s simply proper for light to shine more brightly here. Even after yesterday’s fierce battle the city is beautiful, its upper reaches untouched by the cannons and the marching armies. Huge colourful flags fly from nearly every pinnacle, rainbows of flowers wave cheerfully in window boxes, and the snow-white castle walls almost glow in the warm morning sunlight. 

From his window, Raiel has a clear view down the steep city streets and out towards yesterday’s battlefield, although the city walls obscure the sight of the trampled trenches. He could be out walking the streets with Hamel and Oboe, but it was late last night by the time the healers visited him, and with so many injured still to treat they left a fair proportion of his injuries for nature to deal with. He’s tired and sore, and in any case he’s sure Hamel would appreciate some time alone to come to grips with the idea of Princess Flute. So he enjoys the first real feather bed he’s slept in for years, and the clean and ironed clothes he’s been provided, and the crispy bacon and sizzling eggs a maid brings him on a silver tray, and watches the city from above instead.

Raiel’s not expecting Hamel back until the afternoon, and everyone else is in bed recovering from their own injuries, so when a knock comes at the door he has no idea who it could be.

“Come in?” He pulls himself to sit fully up against the headboard, ignoring the shooting pains from his bruised ribs. Even the pillows here are perfect, thick but still soft and full of the clean smell of newly laundered sheets. 

The door swings smartly open to reveal an utterly unexpected guest: the stiff-backed courtier with the powdered wig and monocle. Cymbal? Snare? Raiel can’t even remember his name – the only thing he knows about the man is that he was the one who bribed Hamel to leave, and not return. It’s enough to cause Raiel’s eyes to narrow and his fingers to tighten over the sheets.

“Ahem.” The man marches in and stops at the foot of the bed. He moves like a clockwork soldier, all hard, uncompromising angles. “You have been summoned to Horn-sama’s presence.”

Raiel forgets his suspicion as shock washes over him like ice water. “I – what?” He’s vaguely aware that he’s gaping like a child.

“Horn-sama will see you. Now.” He gives Raiel a flat look that suggests Raiel is being unpardonably slow.

“She wants to see _me?_ Why?” Anyone else in the party, he would understand. Flute is her daughter, Hamel the great hero, Trom the prince of Sforzando’s protector nation, Oboe wise and well-informed. Raiel’s just a soldier, and she has tens of thousands of them.

“It is not my place to ask,” sniffs the man. “Come along. And bring your piano.” He stands with his feet together at nearly right angles, tense form suggesting he might start tapping them at any moment. 

Raiel gets out of bed slowly, bones creaking. The huge flagstones are cold under his bare feet, but he finds finely-knit woolen socks in the wardrobe – along with a further selection of shirts, trousers, and even a vest and jacket. He pulls on the socks and vest while missing his battle-stained clothes. The maids insisted on taking them away to be repaired, but he would have felt more comfortable doing it himself; he’s sewed them back together more than enough times to be an expert. His boots, at least, only required a clean and are ready to be pulled on.

The piano, too, is a reassuring weight on his back. His side and leg protest at the weight, but when they don’t buckle after the first few steps he knows he’ll make it. 

“Where is Queen Horn?” asks Raiel, all the same, hands on the piano’s thick straps.

“In her chambers, on the other side of the castle.”

Raiel sighs, and the man gives him another disparaging look. “We will not be walking,” he says, and snaps his fingers.

There’s a sensation like the world moving sideways while the ground stands still, his ears telling him he’s moving while the rest of his senses insist he isn’t. Then a flash of black, and he’s staring at a tall wooden door instead of the wall of his room.

Raiel staggers and catches himself against the wall; all of a sudden, he’s breathing hard and sweating. His head is spinning gently, like it used to when he and Hamel rolled down the hill in his backyard as children. “Guck,” he says, weakly, as he tries to keep his knees from buckling. Queen Horn’s courtier is standing next to him, looking more unimpressed than ever. He takes Raiel’s good arm and pulls him towards the door as though leading a reticent child.

“You address her as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘ma’am.’ Kneel when you enter. Speak courteously, and do not excite her. Answer her honestly, and do whatever she asks of you. Above all,” he adds, looking down his nose at Raiel’s bandaged arm and uneven posture, “do not ask or allow her to heal you.”

“I would never –” begins Raiel, before he is promptly silenced by an elbow to the ribs. The doors open while he’s still catching his breath, and he’s pushed forwards into the room beyond.

Queen Horn’s chambers turn out to be one huge room decorated to provide a bit of everything. There’s an alcove by a wide set of windows with a beautiful desk of red wood with overstuffed chairs and a thick river-blue carpet. There’s a set of expensively-upholstered couches in another corner set around a table with a bowl full of perfect fruit. Nearer the door are several sets of bookshelves and some deep, comfortable-looking armchairs. But Raiel’s attention is drawn to a large panelled cloth screen that hides half the room from him. It has been beautifully embroidered with country scenes, probably depicting different regions of Sforzando. Over the top of it, he can see the pillars and hangings of a large bed.

The courtier plants him firmly on his side of the screen, and then steps around it. “The hero Raiel, Your Majesty,” he announces, softly, all consideration and self-effacement.

“Thank you, Percuss.” The Queen’s voice is just as pure and gentle as it was the first time he heard it, in the throne room upon their arrival in the palace. But there’s a catch there now that wasn’t there then, the kind that comes with strong pain. “Hero Raiel?”

Raiel startles, and nearly chokes on his breath. “Yes, Your Majesty?” His knees nearly bend of their own will.

“How do you find my city? Have you been treated well?”

He finds himself stuttering, trying to find a way to fit the praise he knows he must give into words. “It’s beautiful – the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, maybe. And, um, y-your kindness and generosity are humbling. I – we can’t thank you enough. I don’t know the last time I’ve been treated so well.” He does; it was when he still had a home of his own. Although he doesn’t mean for it to, he hears a shred of that sadness in his voice. 

“If we are fortunate, it is only right that we share that fortune,” says Queen Horn. “But we could not begrudge anything of the man who saved this country. And truly, I could not begrudge anything of the man who saved my chief priest.”

“I don’t have anything to ask for, ma’am,” he says, awkwardly, and wonders whether someone told her he did, whether that’s why he’s here.

“I am at a disadvantage then, hero Raiel.”

Raiel blinks, brows furrowing. “Your Majesty?” 

“For I have something I would ask of you.”

He really does choke this time, and has to cough quietly into his sleeve. He can hear Percuss taking advantage of his distraction to hiss something at his queen in a scandalised tone. She replies quite calmly.

“Thank you, no, Percuss. You may leave.”

“But, Your Majesty –”

She doesn’t reply, but whatever look she gives him it’s clearly enough to send him marching out. He gives Raiel a venomous glare as he passes, striding by so closely that Raiel’s forced to dance back out of his way.

“Hero Raiel?”

Raiel startles, and turns back to the screen. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I witnessed your battle against Drum yesterday. You summon spirits using your piano – that is a rare gift, one possessed by only a handful of men in my country.”

Raiel, unsure how to answer this, says nothing. He runs a nervous hand down the side of his piano, feeling its cool smoothness beneath his fingers and relaxing slightly.

“It seems, though, that you also converse with them. That is almost unknown – men may ask favours of spirits, but they do not answer.”

“Um, I didn’t know, Your Majesty. We talk, sometimes. If they feel like it, I mean. Sometimes they don’t, and the Firebird isn’t really very good about not setting things on fire, and the water spirits are a bit short tempered sometimes – actually all the time, really, so –”

“You do speak with them, though?” asks Horn, cutting him off. Raiel struggles to keep himself on one sole track, his mind frantically running down any path it finds, like a mouse in the shadow of a hawk.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he manages.

“Then I wish to ask a favour of you. May I?”

This time, at least, he knows it’s coming and avoids choking. “I – of course – anything, ma’am.” 

“You are kind-hearted, hero. I wish you to ask a question of the spirits. They reside in their own world, and may speak to any there whom they care to. Our tomes of lore tell us this much, but in this kingdom there are none who would ask a question of a spirit and receive an answer. None, apart from yourself.” There’s a short pause, the room so quiet he can hear her drawing a breath. “I wish you to ask the spirits whether my son, Prince Lute, resides in their realm. Or whether he is still here, in ours.”

For a moment, the silence seems thick enough to smother him. Queen Horn’s absolutely steady voice rings in his ears, making his heart leap with each repetition, her fortitude shaking his own. 

Raiel knows almost nothing about Sforzando, other than its reputation as a rich, powerful country ruled by a benevolent queen. He had no idea she had a son, hasn’t seen any sign of a prince.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Was he lost in the battle?” he asks, as he swings his piano around to sit in front of him.

“Not this one. It was – a long time ago.”

There’s something missing here, a vital piece, but he can’t ask what. Can’t even bring himself to consider probing for more information from that calm, distant tone. Instead he runs his fingers over the keys of the piano, picking out the main theme from the Firebird in light touches with just a few accompanying chords.

A spark falls from mid-air above the end of the piano, blossoming into a tiny flare and then unfolding like a flower into bright flames which resolve themselves into a form the size of a grapefruit. The Firebird, sitting on the edge of the piano, opens its eyes and cocks its head. It chirps questioningly, and takes off to sweep over to him, banking to flutter in front of his face. The heat of its flames washes against his skin, gentle as the spring sun.

“I have a question, Firebird-kun,” Raiel says, as the bird swoops above his hands, showering tiny sparks. They dissolve before reaching his fingers, just the ashes falling like grains of sand onto the white keys. “Where is Prince Lute, son of Queen Horn? In this world, or the other? Do you know?”

The bird alights on the closer edge of the piano and ruffles its feathers, shedding more sparks. “I will ask, Raiel-sama.” It disappears in a burst of flames, Raiel pulling his hands away just in time.

“It doesn’t know, ma’am, but it will find out, if it can. Would you like me to return?”

“Will it take long?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve never asked it a question like that.”

“What do you speak of? With the spirits?” The queen sounds more tired than curious, suddenly weary but unwilling to send him away.

“Nothing important, ma’am. I rarely summon the spirits outside battle, and while under attack there isn’t time for conversation. They are loyal to the one who calls them, but they’re also often fickle and bad-tempered. Firebird is the kindest of all, and even it gets sulky.”

“Tell me. You speak with spirits; do you also speak with the shades of the dead?”

Raiel’s fingers dig into the piano keys, a discordant, ugly sound. He lets go immediately, but he’s already given away his discomfort. 

Like a champion archer, she’s hit the gold without effort. Found the one secret that he keeps for himself, buried away deep in his heart. The secret of his hideous, profane desire. The desire he can never, ever allow himself. 

To raise the ghosts of the dead. 

“No, ma’am. What is dead is gone. Only the dead speak to the dead, and…” he lets out a slow, painful breath, the sound of it like wind rattling through a cold, empty house. “If I started, I don’t think I could stop until I was one of them.” 

There’s a long pause; to Raiel it seems that he can almost feel the queen’s anguish, her aching heart. When she speaks it’s softly, her rich voice muted. “You have strength I would not credit myself with.”

It’s hard to believe his ears. Hard to understand that the strongest woman in all the human kingdoms is suggesting she is weaker than him. But them, Raiel has never lost a child. 

“Grief can make monsters of us all, ma’am. You have fought it off bravely – much more so than I ever did.”

“And yet I see no monster here, Hero Raiel.”

He scratches his nose contemplatively. “I lost myself for a long time. If I’ve found myself now, it’s thanks to your daughter. I’ll do everything I can to protect Flute-chan – Flute-hime, I mean. But even for her sake, I won’t speak to the dead.”

“And not for mine, either,” muses Queen Horn gently. He hears no rebuke in her voice, just a sort of sad acceptance. 

Raiel brushes his fingers over the ivory keys, takes comfort in their cool smoothness as he gives the only answer he can. “No, ma’am.”

There’s a sharp sound like a stick snapping in a fire, and sparks fall from the air. Firebird unfolds itself into the world in hues of red and orange, bristling brightly. “Raiel-sama, I’ve returned,” it says, alighting on the top of his piano. 

“Good. And?”

“Prince Lute is neither in the realm of man nor the realm of spirits.” 

Raiel blinks. “What does that mean?” On the other side of the partition, he hears Horn shift. 

The tiny bird preens nervously, beak shaking out ash from its flaming breast feathers. 

“Firebird-kun,” presses Raiel. The little spirit looks up, head cocked to the side like a sparrow. 

With a shuffle of its feet, the phoenix begins. “It means, Raiel-sama, that either Prince Lute never existed, or that he is elsewhere. Lost, somewhere between the worlds.”

“What could cause that?”

“Only a curse, Raiel-sama. When the curse is broken, he will return to the world where he is meant to be.”

“Hero Raiel?” The queen’s voice is trembling now, like a caged animal fearing its fate. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Prince Lute isn’t in either world. The Firebird says that means he’s under a curse, and only when the curse is broken can he return to where he belongs.”

There’s one single, low sob. It falls into the silence like a shooting star; brief, striking. 

Alone. 

“I’m sorry,” says Raiel again. He twitches his fingers at the Firebird, who burns up to nothing in the blink of an eye, leaving only a bright spot behind on Raiel’s vision. “Can I call someone?” he asks. 

He doesn’t hear her draw breath, but when she speaks again her voice is strong once more, steady. “Play something for me, hero,” she says. “Something that reminds me there is still joy in the world.”

Raiel stares down at the keys of his piano. He knows dozens of pieces, from dirges to dances. Knows music fine enough even for the grandeur of Sforzando. But what the queen wants from him now isn’t grandeur, isn’t pomp and circumstance. 

As always, his fingers know his mood before he does. They pick out the tune, light and airy at first, subtle as the first rays of the morning sun over the horizon. Then the melody gathers energy, with the indomitable strength of spring shooting up through a whole country of orchards and fields and dells, the inexorable victory of new life over death. The Pastoral Symphony is sweet but also powerful, with all the strength of life and beauty. 

The huge room hums with the melody, his piano filling the immense space with rich tones. The sunlight seems brighter for the music, the colours of this expensively-appointed room vibrant and lush. Sforzendo’s bounty seems even greater, its wealth and strength multiplied. 

Finally the symphony fades into quiet rumbles, just the faintest sounds from the bass keys. The brightness fades, and the room seems smaller, shabbier. 

The music stops, Raiel’s injuries aching, his head a little fuzzy. He has the urge to lie down and sleep. 

“Thank you, hero Raiel,” says the queen. He can still hear the sorrow in her voice.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. When it’s time, even the best music has to stop.”

“And in the silence await our memories.”

“Yes.” Oh, yes. He knows that truth all too well. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the answer you wanted, Your Majesty.”

He hears cloth rustle, Horn shifting. “Hero, I don’t know what answer I would have preferred,” she says, honestly. 

Raiel swallows, head bowed over the keys. Whatever happened to Prince Lute, it must have been terrible for her to not wish him alive. Maybe some day, he’ll find out. 

“And now, I think you should be returning to rest. I’ve kept you too long; please forgive me.”

Raiel jerks upright, stammering. “N-no! It was my pleasure, ma’am! Please, call on me anytime.”

“Thank you hero. But I think you’ll understand when I say I too must guard myself against my wishes.”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Knows only that this is a woman who has lost far too much, and that grief is the greatest weakness. 

“Percuss,” calls the queen, her voice echoing slightly. The doors part and her major-domo enters, back stiff and stick tucked beneath his arm. “Please see Hero Raiel back to his room.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” His heels click and he crosses over to Raiel, who stands and pulls the piano up with him, his wounds aching. The man takes his elbow and once again they move in space without ever taking a step; suddenly he’s back in his much plainer room. “I hope you didn’t tire Her Majesty,” he says severely. 

Raiel puts down the piano rather than answering; the major-domo takes the hint and leaves. He pulls off his boots and vest and drops onto the bed, body aching. 

As his mind creeps back steadily to Anthem, as it always does when he forgets to guard it, to the bodies of everyone he knew – a world separated from him by a single song – he wonders what it is the queen wishes for. 

He doubts he’ll ever know. But before he falls into a fitful sleep he says a prayer for Prince Lute. Wherever he is. 

END


End file.
